


corrupted lungs

by orphan_account



Series: this is the end [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like you’re drowning and looking at him will fill your lungs with oxygen, though you know that that’s not how it works. He’s more like a breath of acrid smoke now. So you don’t look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	corrupted lungs

It’s been this way for years and it’s the only way it will ever be.

The cabin is dark but warm. A smoky fog hangs between words unspoken, dripping off voiced thoughts like polluted water, and you are alone, though only in spirit, because the body lying next to you hasn’t been alive in years – not really.

You’re lying there together, not touching. You’ve only got your jeans on, lying on your side to watch him on his back wearing those ugly cloth pants he’d been so fond of so long ago. Now you were pretty sure he didn’t have an opinion either way about much of anything. The rolled clove cigarette in the fallen angels’ mouth wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, much as you wished it was, and the smell of its smoke was so ever present when around him that you barely even noticed anymore.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” you ask.

He looks at you languidly and blows a puff of smoke out in your face. You glare at him and steal the cigarette out from between his fingers. Looking him in the eye, you take a drag and hold the smoke in your mouth before blowing it out at him and handing back the cigarette. He grins at you.

“Nothing,” he answers. He looks like he’s baring his teeth at you. You have to remind yourself that that’s just how he smiles – or maybe it isn’t, maybe he’s threatening you, but it doesn’t matter anyway. He doesn’t have to threaten you to get you to do anything for him. Everyone knows he’ll follow you to the end, but they don’t realize he could lead you into the heart of the Abyss just to leave you alone and you’d go smiling.

You roll onto your back and he laughs. “No lies,” you tell him. “We agreed on that, didn’t we?”

You almost smile when he turns to look at you, reversing your earlier position. You think it’s almost poetic, if anything is, the way you mirror each other. Always making the same moves, a push and pull like the moon and the tides. You think he’s the moon because he’s always been so far above you. It doesn’t really matter in the end; maybe you take turns.

“I love you,” he says simply. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.

You roll your eyes and give the ceiling a half smile. “If I say I love you, too, will it change anything?”

He considers that before taking another drag on his cigarette. It’s like his walls go up as smoke fills his mouth and lungs. “Probably not,” he finally answers.

You make a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat. “Then I won’t say it.”

“Good.” He nods and turns onto his back so that you’re both looking at the cracked ceiling, tracing the patterns of water damage with your eyes.

Your hands are laying between you, the backs of your fingers almost touching. You can feel the heat coming off his skin like he’s a human radiator. _Human_ , you remember. _He’s human_. When he was an angel, he was cold as ice. Maybe it was a side-effect of a human body trying to cool down boiling Grace to make it manageable and now it was overcompensating, having years to make up for. You wouldn’t even have to move to link your fingers together, just a small adjustment would suffice and you’d be palm to palm.

It’s hard to remember a time when that was something you did; hold hands for the sake of it. And it _was_ something you did – there was nothing you loved more than the feeling of his smooth palms against your calloused ones. But since he Fell his hands have grown tough and so has his heart. You’re scared to touch him for fear you’ll burn. You still want to. Reaching out would be so easy, and you can always treat burns. Doesn’t matter if they’re deep-tissue; you’ll take it. And you’ll smile.

“I do, though,” you tell him after a while, looking at him out of the corner of your eye. He looks at you the same way and you can almost imagine the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Good,” he replies. It’s a full smirk now, the one he learnt after he found the drugs. You used to think it was almost sexy when he’d look at you like that, but that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago. You hate that smirk.

You start to hum a half-forgotten song, something that reminds you of the open road. You remember your mothers’ cassettes, which your father would listen to exclusively before he passed them on to you. Their tapes haven’t spun in years.

“We could have saved the world, you know,” he tells you. You stop humming. “If I’d never loved you, I wouldn’t have fallen, and this wouldn’t have happened.”

In the end, it’s him who reaches over and laces your fingers together. You lay on your backs looking at the ceiling, hands connected between your bodies. You wish that you were closer but you’ll take what you can get – you’ll _always_ take what you can get.

“Do you regret it?” you ask him. It’s not the first time you’ve asked and it won’t be the last. At least until his answer changes.

You can feel him shift to shake his head even though you’re not looking at him. You stare pointedly ahead of you, not moving even though you want to see him. It’s like you’re drowning and looking at him will fill your lungs with oxygen, though you know that that’s not how it works. He’s more like a breath of acrid smoke now. So you don’t look.

“No.” He turns his head to look at your profile. You stare forwards. “Never. I’ve never regretted this, not for a moment.” You wonder who he’s trying to convince; no one in this cabin believes his words. If the walls could talk, they’d tell stories of your endless fights. The broken glass shattering like the promises that were already on the floor.

You don’t remind him about honesty. It doesn’t really matter, anyway; that was always a stupid rule. No one’s ever honest anymore; why do you always have to try and be an exception to humanity?

“I love you,” you tell him.

He turns to look at the ceiling so you steal a glance before looking back up. _The only way to go is up_. “Good.”

You wish you’d both stop lying.


End file.
